


Immovable Activities

by AppalachianApologies



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, He is mentally unstable, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Martin is an awful father, Papa Gil, but i am going to have waaaaaaayyyyy too much fun with the whump, but lets be honest it would probably be more worrying if he wasn't, imgine writing a story where the main character isn't hurt lmao can't relate, it may start out tame, listen i haven't had enough physical whump in burning cinders, really it's not my fault, so i'm going through withdrawals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppalachianApologies/pseuds/AppalachianApologies
Summary: It's official: Malcolm has been benched from this case. And it's not even for a good reason. He just got slightly slashed, he can totally keep working the case! 100%. Definitely.
Comments: 45
Kudos: 131





	1. Good Choices are Only Slightly Hard to Come By

**Author's Note:**

> Ohohoho it's been a hot second since I've written Prodigal Son, but I'm just so excited for the second season and I got inspired and wrote all of this in the past couple of hours so... yeah!
> 
> I decided to give myself a little challenge, and by that, I mean Malcolm is going to have to solve this case while staying in the hospital the entire time! A special thanks to [BrightTerror,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightTerror/pseuds/BrightTerror) who let me rant to her about this idea, and who helped inspire it! You should totally check out her work, it's freaking awesome!!

“I’m fine,” Malcolm mutters, for what must be the hundredth time in the past twenty minutes. “Look at me, Gil! I’m fine!”

Unamused, Gil threatens, “I have handcuffs. I will cuff you to the bed.”

“It doesn’t even hurt!” Malcolm happily announces, even though his wincing gives it away. “Honestly, I’ve never felt better.”

“You just got stabbed-”

“Slashed,” Comes the quick correction. “Lightly slashed. It’s like a paper cut.”

“A papercut that needed ten stitches?”

More quietly, Malcolm adds, “A very mean papercut?”

Gil just groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Kid, I’m not dealing with this right now. You’re staying in that damned hospital bed until you can walk from one side of the hallway to the other. ‘We clear?”

“If you’d just give me a chance, I can prove it to you!”

“Prove what?”

“That I can walk,” Malcolm happily exclaims, already attempting to push himself off of the thin hospital mattress.

Moving a hand to keep his shoulder down, Gil counters, “Absolutely not. You’re whiter than the sheets. It’s not a good look on you.”

“Pshh,” Malcolm waves a hand in front of him, “That’s from the sleep deprivation, not the blood loss. Like I said, I’m-”

“Kid, if you finish that statement with ‘fine’ I will lock you in here-”

“Can’t do that,” Malcolm grins. “Patient doors don’t lock!”

Muttering a quick prayer for patience, Gil just mumbles, “You’re not getting up, and you’re definitely not working this case.”

“C’mon,” Malcolm counters, “I worked the case after Watkins. I’m no worse for wear now than I was then.”

“You worked the case without my permission,” Gil points out. “And I told you what would happen if you did that again.” Before Malcolm can even attempt another excuse, Gil is already announcing, “I need to go collect evidence. And you,” He adds a finger point for extra dramatics, “Will be staying in that hospital bed. Clear?”

Giving a half nod half shake (which really doesn’t do much for Gil’s blood pressure), Malcolm puts up a nice smile. “Crystal.”

Malcolm doesn’t exactly catch what Gil murmurs on the way out, but it does have some particularly colorful words, so he doesn’t mind. Besides, they both know what Malcolm’s going to do the second he leaves.

To his credit, Malcolm does wait at least a minute. Well, fifty seconds.

Forty five.

Maybe thirty seconds. Long enough that Gil’s out of earshot, anyway.

Snatching his phone from the ‘patient belongings’ bag beside him, he quickly dials. “Hey, Dani. How’re you doing?”

He can nearly hear the frown in her voice.  _ “How are you already awake? Didn’t you just have surgery?” _

“Never been good with sedatives,” Malcolm cryptically answers. “So, I have information on the case-”

_ “Nuh uh,” _ She quickly interrupts.  _ “You’re not working the case.” _

“Wha- did Gil say something?”

She sighs on the other end of the phone.  _ “Gil didn’t have to say anything. We all know how you get in hospitals. And for the record, no, he didn’t say anything.” _

“I’m barely in the hospital,”

_ “What does that even mean?” _

Squinting to himself, Malcolm backtracks, “I’m not really sure. Anyway. I can still help on the case! After all, I'm a consultant!”

_ “Yeah, a consultant that just got stabbed.” _

“Slashed,” He empathetically corrects.

Dani just sighs again. “Bright, get some rest. We’ll be able to handle the case.”

With a frown, Malcolm drops the phone when she hangs up.

He could try calling JT, but something tells him that he’d have even worse luck with him than he did with Dani. And despite the fact that he’s been working in the precinct for months, Malcolm doesn’t really know anyone else.

Save for one rather eccentric mortician, that is.

Unsurprisingly, she answers on the first ring. “Edrisa,” He drawls, “Hey. How are you?”

_ “Bright!” _ She happily greets.  _ “Are you already out of surgery? I thought you got pretty hurt.” _

“Nah,” He argues, “It was really nothing. More of a precaution.”

_ “A precautionary surgery?” _

“Don’t think about it too hard.”

There’s a beat before Edrisa replies,  _ “...Okay.” _

“So, about the case, I need you to check something for me on the third body.”

_ “No problem! Do you want me to call the rest of the-” _

“Nope!” Malcolm interrupts. “It’s really just a hunch, so nobody else needs to be bothered by this information. Gil doesn’t need to know about it.”

If Edrisa is suspicious, she certainly doesn’t let it get to her head. _ “Oh, alright. So what part of the body?” _

“That’s the body without an appendix, right?”

_ “Mmhm,” _ She hums.  _ “Medical file says it was taken out seven years ago after Mr. Taylor developed appendicitis. According to the report the surgery went well.” _

Wincing as he reaches over to grab a notepad and pen, Malcolm struggles through gritted teeth, “Perfect. Now the fourth victim also didn’t have an appendix, right?”

_ “Yep!” _ Edrisa replies, far too happy to be talking about cadavers missing organs.  _ “Same as Mr. Taylor, basically. Appendicitis a couple years back.” _

“Great,” Malcolm speaks into the phone. “You’ve been a huge help, Edrisa.”

_ “Oh, really? I’m- yay! Are you sure you don’t want me to tell Gil about this?” _

“One hundred percent,” Malcolm quickly answers. “Thank you, again.”

_ “No problem. Bye Bright!” _

With a groan, Malcolm lets his hand fall back to his lap. Maybe reaching over to grab the paper wasn’t the smartest idea. However a quick check to his side tells him that it wasn’t too bad. No stitches have been popped, so really, he’s fine.

Malcolm spends a few minutes brainstorming different profiles, before giving up and letting his head fall back on the scratchy pillow. For somewhere where you need rest, hospitals aren’t exactly giving out the best accommodations. 

Like warm blankets, a fitted sheet, leather restraints for night terrors, a regular sized pillow- the list goes on and on. Hospitals are impossible to sleep in, but exhaustion still does its best to pull him under. Malcolm hates it.

And in true fashion, he combats this by turning the brightness on his phone all of the way up, and forces himself to not squint. Hopefully the blue light will keep him awake long enough to solve the case.

At some point, high heels echo down the hallway, and Malcolm braces himself for his sister, or even, God forbid, his mother, but the heels pass, and Malcolm lets the tension leave his body. He can’t deal with either of them right now.

Flinching when his phone goes off, Malcolm looks at his notifications, before groaning.

**G. Arroyo ➝ M. Bright**

**_I need photographic evidence_ **

**M. Bright ➝ G. Arroyo**

**_Photographic evidence of what?_ **

**G. Arroyo ➝ M. Bright**

**_That you’re still in the hospital_ **

**M. Bright ➝ G. Arroyo**

**_Aww_ **

**_Cmon gil you don’t believe me?_ **

**G. Arroyo ➝ M. Bright**

**_Send me a picture or im sending your mom to find you_ **

**M. Bright ➝ G. Arroyo**

**_*embedded picture*_ **

**_Happy?_ **

**G. Arroyo ➝ M. Bright**

**_Very_ **

**_Get some sleep_ **

**M. Bright ➝ G. Arroyo**

**_Your wish is my command_ **

**G. Arroyo ➝ M. Bright**

**_*is typing*_ **

After a few seconds and the three dots go away, Malcolm just shrugs to himself. He seems to have an air around him that makes people unsure of what to text next. Honestly, it’s a bit of a skill. He could put it on his resume, right under “Fired from the FBI due to mental instability.”

It’s important to round off a character.

From the bit of his hospital door that’s cracked open, Malcolm can see half of the TV screen by the nurse’s triage. At some point, someone changed it from a series of infomercials, and now it’s on Channel 14.

If he squints, Malcolm can make out the familiar figure of his sister. However no matter how hard he squints, he can’t hear a single thing from the television. 

And it’s not like a nurse is going to humor him and turn it up, which only leaves a few options. Like most of his ideas, none of them are very good.

1) Malcolm could pull himself off the bed and hang out around the nurses station. That wouldn’t work very well because he doesn’t think he can stand, and the nurses would instantly bully him back into bed.

2) Malcolm could find the TV remote and turn it up. But that wouldn’t work well because the nurses would turn it down for all of the other patients on the floor that are actually following their doctors’ orders to rest.

Which leaves him with,

3) Malcolm could call the one person that doesn’t know he’s in the hospital who has access to a television.

Yeah, it’s a bit of an understatement to say that Malcolm’s ideas are bad. They’re more like abysmal, in all actuality.

_ “My boy! You know, I was just thinking about you-” _

“Hello Doctor Whitly.”

_ “You don’t sound good,”  _ Martin points out.  _ “Are you getting sick? You know, your grandmother used to make a mean chicken noodle.” _

Unable to contain an eyeroll, Malcolm interjects, “I’m not sick. I need your help.”

_ “Ooh. Murder case?” _

Malcolm barely stops himself from making a witty remark. “Yes. I need help building a profile.”

_ “And you came to dear old dad before you team? Why, I’m honored!” _

“This has nothing to do with honor. You’re in the right place at the right time.”

Dropping his volume, Martin points out,  _ “Well I hate to tell you this, but I’ve kinda been in prison. How is this the right place?” _

“You have your television privileges back, right?”

_ “I do, as a matter of fact! I’ve been a wonderful inmate the past few weeks. An absolute ray of sunshine!” _

Although Malcolm highly doubts it, he just plays along. “I need you to put your TV on Ainsley’s news channel.”

_ “Well of course, it’s only the channel that I spend most of my days on. She’s so grown up,” _ Martin quietly tuts.

“Is she reporting a murder right now?”

_ “Yes- oh! Are you there? Can you wave to the camera? A dad always wants to see his kids on TV-” _

Not bothering to hide his deep sigh, Malcolm continues, “Where is she? Where did they find this body?”

_ “Down in the boonies.” _

“What?”

_ “You know, I’ve never trusted that neighborhood. Call me a racist old man, but the people down there- they give me the heebie jeebies, you know? No wonder there’s a serial killer living in the area.” _

“He’s probably not living there, just dumping the bodies,” Malcolm drops his head back to the pillow. “Why am I explaining any of this to you? Just give me the neighborhood.”

_ “West Burrow.” _

“The residential parts?”

With a scoff, Martin points out,  _ “Well I did say ‘neighborhood,’ didn’t I?” _

Wisely choosing to ignore that, Malcolm asks one more question, “Are there any empty buildings around?”

_ “Mm,” _

“Doctor Whitly?”

Slowly, Martin continues, _ “I’d like to ask a question myself, first.” _

“This isn’t- you can’t just demand a question of your own.”

Completely ignoring his son, Martin asks,  _ “Why aren’t you at the crime scene yourself?” _

“That’s not important.”

_ “Uh, uh, uh,” _ Martin tuts.  _ “I’m your father. You have to tell me,” _

Feeling the minimal amount of blood left in his body boil, Malcolm grinds out, “I don’t owe you anything. Goodbye, Doctor Whitly.”

_ “Wait-” _

Malcolm’s never felt so satisfied hanging up on someone. It’s a surprisingly glorious feeling. He should do it more often when it comes to Martin.

That’s probably not what’s important right now.

Nearly all of the bodies have been found on the west side. He could possibly make a geographical profile out of that information, but he can’t do so in his head, even on a day where he isn’t cooped up in a hospital.

So instead Malcolm looks around the small room, frowning when he doesn’t find any pieces of paper larger than the small pad in his lap. He does, however, know how to put a bunch of pieces of paper together without using tape.

It takes a few ripped edges and just a couple of folds, but soon enough Malcolm has a sheet of paper that’s a tiny bit larger than the average piece of printer paper. Perfect.

Then, turning his phone on once again, he googles a nice photo of the area, giving himself a rough sketch of the buildings and roads. By the time he’s done, it looks pretty fucking awful, but it’s good enough for a visual aid.

Snatching the blue pen off the bed side table, Malcolm makes stars where each murder has taken place. The shape isn’t anything obvious. Unless, of course, an amoeba is an obvious shape. It could be if the killer is in the field of chemistry.

There’s a pretty low chance of that, though.

Comparing his map to the buildings on his phone, Malcolm draws in a few circles of where the killer could be residing. Circles two miles from each star begin to litter the page, and if that wasn’t bad enough, Malcolm then makes squares in all of the areas where the circles intersect. It looks like a bad child drawing that lives on a fridge via magnet.

Malcolm is really, really tired.

By the time he finishes making the final squares, his hand begins to shake, and at this point in his life, he isn’t even sure what it’s from. 

Probably some combination of PTSD, sleep deprivation, pain, blood loss; the possibilities are honestly endless at this point. 

As his IV bags full of saline and antibiotics come to an end, a nurse comes in, looking like he’s worked the past hundred night shifts.

Mutely, Malcolm wonders if this is what he looks like when he doesn’t sleep for a week. It’s not a very good one.

That being said, the bags are quickly changed, and after a quick assessment of his pain, Malcolm’s left alone yet again. Not before he’s asked for a red pen, though.

Although the nurse gives him a strange look, it’s obvious that it’s not the strangest request he’s gotten, and sure enough, he comes back with a red pen a few minutes later. Malcolm’s already tracing lines by the time he’s giving his thanks.

In the middle of the amoeba, there’s nothing that sticks out. No abandoned lots, no history of crime (which is corroborated by a quick google search), and no obvious places of employment. Chances are, the killer’s home is in that neighborhood.

Killing people is one thing, but killing neighbors? That’s even worse-

That’s important. Even killers make relationships with their neighbors. Unless it’s a particular type of sadist, it’s unlikely that a serial killer would go after people that they already knew. 

So far the kills have been impersonal, without a sense of pride, meaning that the killer doesn’t take as much joy out of killing as others. Unlike Martin Whitly.

From the cadavers that Malcolm had seen before getting stabb-  _ slashed, _ Malcolm can easily tell that it’s no crime of passion. Ordinarily Malcolm would assume that it’s a crime of opportunity, but if they’re all from the same neighborhood, that negates any other ideas.

Nobody just walks around a neighborhood killing random people by chance. Right?

_ Right? _

Whatever the case may be, there’s definitely a pattern here that Malcolm can’t quite put his finger on. So far, none of his ideas for profiles fit. 

And his stomach is absolutely on fire.

Every time he tries to focus on the inked pages in front of him, his eyes seem to fizzle out, lids slipping shut, which does nothing but piss him off. He doesn’t need sleep, he needs answers.

Answers before another victim is killed.

In a rather sad effort to keep himself awake, Malcolm keeps clicking the pens, if only to distract himself. It doesn’t work as well as he wants it to.

Victims of opportunity and a pattern of bodies don’t make sense, it just doesn’t make sense- unless.

Unless, the victims are from opportunity, but the dumping sites are a specific pattern. Well, maybe not a pattern, per say, but they’ve all been dumped in a specific place for a reason.

Going through google maps is proving to be extremely difficult when everything he sees keeps going in and out of focus, but Malcolm makes it work. In the middle of the amoeba, there’s a cul de sac of houses.

The killer could be positioning the bodies around any of those houses for a specific reason. All Malcolm has to do is figure out the reason.

If only he could look at the bodies himself.

He never thought he’d miss Edrisa’s Y-stitch before, but there’s a first for everything.

Two victims were killed without appendixes. 

But all of the other ones had no connection, which makes Malcolm further believe that they were honestly victims of opportunity.

There’s a chance that those two victims just happened to not have appendixes, but he’s pretty sure that the probability of that would be low. Of course, that being said, he’s far too tired to do any type of math.

The two victims without appendixes were stabbed in the throat and thigh, severing the carotid and femoral arteries. An extremely quick, but messy, way to kill someone. Probably not someone who wanted to savor the moment.

However all of the other victims had a Surgeon-esc cause of death. Their stomachs and chests were cut open, and a single organ was missing.

Whatever this killer was after, it involves organs.

They must not be keeping it though, because then they’d never go for the two victims without taking anything. No, instead the killer wants dead bodies with exactly one less organ.

The profile really is an enigma.

Malcolm grabs one of the pens to make a note on the paper, but it slips out of his hands, just like the first time he tried to use chopsticks.

Damn his body for needing sleep.

Already knowing that he’s going to lose the battle, Malcolm quickly folds and stuffs his homemade map, hiding it underneath the ‘patient’s belongings’ bag, along with the extra pen.

Nobody has to know he’s been working the case.

Opposite of what most people feel before they sleep, Malcolm’s heart begins to speed up, fears of an upcoming dream already beginning to rattle around.

There’s nothing that he wants more than to stay awake, but his eyelids seem to be made of lead.

That doesn’t stop him from trying though.

Malcolm does his absolute best to fall into an uncomfortable position, to take his blanket off, even to move the pillow, but his brain is hell bent on sleeping.

And if there’s one thing Malcolm’s never had control over, it’s his brain.


	2. Speaking of Good Choices...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, Malcolm will make smart decisions while in the hospital. Today is not that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry I meant to have this up yesterday but I had a lot of real life stuff, and then I meant to have it up earlier today but then I had a seizure lol. And then I was just gonna wait to post until tomorrow bc of that, but then the muse struck, so now we're here! Hooray :D
> 
> Also thank you for all you lovely people who showed me support for the first chapter- it's been months since I've written pson and all of your kind words made me feel so happy! Thank you so much!!
> 
> Please enjoy!

None of the nurses are particularly delighted with Malcolm and his night terrors. 

He’s halfway sure that there must be a note or something in his medical files, seeing as the amount of times he’s probably scared a nurse half to death with them. Then again, his file is probably full of notes that say, “Don’t release AMA” in all caps. Maybe underlined a few times? Malcolm’s not really sure. All he knows is that Gil gave some mostly legal threats to ensure that Malcolm wouldn’t be leaving the hospital early.

As it stands right now, there’s a nurse trying to push sedatives into Malcolm’s IV, evidently unaware that sedatives will make everything worse in the long run.

Despite the nurse’s protests, Malcolm rips out his IV, grimacing at the motion. Night terrors and stitches don’t mix well. That’s something that he’s lived long enough to understand.

Someone’s telling him to slow his breathing down, but instead Malcolm just barks out, “I’m fine. Thank you. I’m sorry for the IV.” When the nurse doesn’t leave, Malcolm looks back up at her, attempting to convey a message through his grimace.

“Sir, I need to check your stitches, and replace your IV.”

“It’s really not necessary,”

“Yes it is.” Despite her small size, she’s absolutely adamant. “It won’t hurt, I promise.”

Malcolm just sighs. It isn’t the pain that he’s worried about. Honestly, he isn’t even sure what he should be worried about. The nurse has probably already seen his still-healing scar from Watkins, but something about this just puts him on edge. 

As she replaces his IV, Malcolm questions, “Can you do me a favor?”

“Depends what the favor is,” She easily replies. “If it’s about leaving the hospital, no can do.”

Looking to the side, Malcolm mutters, “Why is that the first thing that everyone assumes?”

“It’s in your file,” She reports, moving a bit of electronics over his arm.

“I knew it- but no, it’s not about that,” He quickly adds. “I need a phone book.”

Unsurprisingly, the nurse takes a second to give him a look. “What? Why?”

“I need to find certain numbers to call?”

“We have internet here,” She points out, “Can’t you just look it up?”

Finally settling back into the bed, Malcolm awkwardly replies, “...It’s a long story?”

With a deep sigh, the nurse concedes, “Okay. If I somehow find a Yellow Pages in the hospital, I’ll bring it to you.”

“Great!”

“On one condition.”

Malcolm sighs. “Of course.”

She gets right into it, “You need to be getting more rest, and you need to be exerting yourself less. I know you want to get out of the hospital, but you’re not going to be able to if you don’t let your body rest.”

Bobbing his head, Malcolm admits, “I don’t really do rest. Kinda comes from my childhood.”

“Tough,” She shrugs. “You’re gonna have to learn to ‘do rest’ if you want to get a clean bill of health, got it?”

Malcolm gives a slow nod with a thumbs up from both hands. “Got it.”

“I’ll see if I can find you a Yellow Pages, Mr. Bright.” And with that, the nurse steps back into the hall, already exchanging files at the triage. 

Putting the least amount of resistance against his stitches as he can, Malcolm reaches over to the bedside table, groaning as soon as he picks up his phone. Not only is the brightness too far up, there’s already notifications piled on.

And even worse: his mother is the cause for nearly half of them.

**J. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Darling when were you going to tell me that you were in the hospital?_ **

**_Most mothers don’t appreciate it when this information gets to them via a boss_ **

**_Specifically one in the police department_ **

**_The least you could do was send me a text_ **

**_I’m not even asking for a phone call_ **

**_Actually, I’ve waited long enough_ **

**_Call me when you wake._ **

**_Call. Me._ **

Malcolm can’t even help the eyeroll, ignoring the fact that it probably makes him look like a petulant child. At least no one’s around to make fun of him.

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Watch out mom just heard about what happened_ **

**_I can only hold her back from the hospital for so long, mal_ **

**_Also text me when you get this_ **

It’s probably not in his best interest to tell his family that the first person he called when he was in the hospital was his father. His serial killer father. His mother would probably have an aneurysm if she knew about that. She already gets too strung up when Martin calls him on a good day.

**D. Powell ➝ M. Bright**

**_I hope you’re feeling better_ **

**_Dont escape from the hospital, or we’ll find you_ **

Malcolm snorts. He certainly doesn’t doubt it.

**G. Arroyo ➝ M. Bright**

**_Kid you better still be in the hospital_ **

**_If I find that you left I’m dragging you back myself_ **

Figuring that he may as well start with the easy ones, Malcolm writes back to Gil.

**M. Bright ➝ G. Arroyo**

**_I’m still in the hospital_ **

**_*embedded image*_ **

**_See?_ **

He waits a few seconds, but after there’s no response he just goes straight to Dani.

**M. Bright ➝ D. Powell**

**_I won’t escape_ **

**D. Powell ➝ M. Bright**

**_Why don’t I believe you?_ **

**M. Bright ➝ D. Powell**

**_I won’t escape *this* time_ **

**D. Powell ➝ M. Bright**

**_Yeah that sounds more like you_ **

**_You’ll be out of there before you know it_ **

**_Just deal with the hospital a little longer?_ **

**_Don’t piss off the nurses._ **

**M. Bright ➝ D. Powell**

**_I won’t_ **

When Dani doesn’t text back, Malcolm drops his head to the scratchy pillow behind him. Now there’s no excuse to not deal with his family.

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_Little late on the warning_ **

**_And I’m fine, don’t worry about it_ **

**_Just keep mom sane_ **

**_And away from me and the hospital as long as you can_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Bold of you to assume i have any power over mom_ **

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_Oh har har_ **

**_Please?_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_I’ll see what i can do_ **

**_But you owe me_ **

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_When do I not?_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_You owe me extra now_ **

Malcolm supposes that’s probably fair. The amount of times that he’s used Ainsley’s help to ward off their mother is far into the double digits. He’s pretty sure that he’s used that tactic even before their family went to shit.

And speaking of things going to shit,

**M. Bright ➝ J. Whitly**

**_Hello mother_ **

**_I’m fine, thanks for asking_ **

To his horror, a second later, he gets a call from her, and there’s no excuse in the world that could stop him from answering it.

“Hello-”

_ “Malcolm.” _

Raising a fist on his end, Malcolm stifles a sigh and greets, “Hello, mother.”

Forgoing any pleasantries or greetings, Jessica continues,  _ “Why didn’t you tell me you were in the hospital? I had to find out from Gil!” _

“It’s honestly not that bad. And I thought that you already knew about it?”

_ “How would I have known, Malcolm? You changed your proxy to Ainsley!” _ She huffs, sounding just as exasperated as Malcolm feels.

Shaking his head, Malcolm counters, “That doesn’t matter. I’m fine, and I’ll be out of the hospital soon, anyway.”

Jessica lets out a particularly dramatic shudder.  _ “The fact that you’re in the hospital at all is worrying, dear. Most people don’t land themselves there every month.” _

“It’s not every month.”

_ “Now’s not the time to argue with me. I’m coming to see you. I’m sure they have those little Whiskey shots somewhere,” _ She adds, much quieter.

With a groan, Malcolm points out, “That’s an airplane, mother. You won’t be finding any shots other than the medical type here.”

_ “I  _ could  _ go for some ketamine-” _

“Mother,”

_ “I’m joking, darling. I’ll be there in thirty.” _

Ignoring the pain while he sucks in a breath, Malcolm quickly announces, “You don’t have to. I’m being treated just fine here. You don’t need to stop by.”

Malcolm can nearly hear his mother’s frown on the other end.  _ “Are you trying to get me to stay away from the hospital because you aren’t even there?” _

“I’m here. I’ll send you a picture, even. Good enough?”

Jessica sighs again, telling Malcolm that she’s not nearly drunk enough for this conversation.  _ “For now. I’ll stop by in the afternoon. Take it easy, Malcolm. I don’t you blowing yourself up or anything,” _ More to herself, Jessica adds,  _ “The bills would be atrocious.” _

“Goodbye, mother.”

_ “Bye, dear.” _

As soon as the call has ended Malcolm drops his phone straight onto the mattress with a groan. His night terrors seem easier to deal with than his own mother. However now that he’s dealt with his family, Malcolm can get back to work.

After a quick glance to the hallway, Malcolm moves his bag full of clothes to retrieve his map. Now that he’s slightly less sleep deprived, the map he made makes even less sense. The first few minutes of case solving is used just deciphering his writing.

Is this how everyone else feels when he works?

There’s still something that doesn’t sit right with Malcolm. The dump sites seem random, they really do, but he just has a nagging feeling that it’s not. There’s something in his gut that tells him otherwise.

Using Google, Malcolm can quickly figure out that the neighborhood had mingled in mom and pop shops once, but now there’s not any in sight. All of them must’ve been demolished between the current time and about thirty years ago.

Which is where the Yellow Pages comes in handy.

Glancing up at the door frame, Malcolm forces a smile on his face. “Just in time.”

The nurse rolls her eyes, but sets down the thick book on a chair where Malcolm can’t reach. “Food and meds first. No arguing with me.”

“I’ll take the meds,” Malcolm complies, holding out his hand. 

“You need to eat with them as well, and your tray from last night didn’t have a single thing missing. I know the hospital food sucks, but you have to have something.”

Making a face, Malcolm informs her, “I’ve always been a bit of a picky eater.” Wincing, he adds, “That also comes from my childhood. A lot of things happened when I was ten.”

The nurse isn’t very amused. “Do you want to try today’s breakfast, or something from the vending machine, maybe?”

“I’ll,” Malcolm shakes his head, “Take the breakfast.”

“Excellent choice. I’ll leave that,” She motions at the chair, “For motivation. You’ll have food in a second, and once I see you eat something, I’ll give you your meds.”

“Can’t I just get them in IV form?” 

Shrugging, the nurse points out, “You’re gonna have to swallow them as soon as you get released from the hospital. No reason to not start now.”

Although Malcolm makes a face, he eventually gives up and agrees, “Sounds like a plan.”

Thirty minutes later, Malcolm’s finally eaten enough to satisfy his nurse, and has kept it down long enough to take his meds with it. Somehow, as if living in a strange paradoxal world, eating just makes Malcolm feel even more exhausted.

However, it’s all worth it when the nurse hands him the Yellow Book. “This isn’t some elaborate plan to escape, right?”

“Nope,” Malcolm smiles, hoping it comes across as cheery rather than pained. Based on the look the nurse gives him back, he thinks he might’ve tried a little too hard.

But now that he has the book, none of that is important.

Using the red pen, Malcolm writes down all of the addresses of the dumping sites, before instantly realizing what his flaw is. Yellow Pages are, by exactly no sense of the word, organized by address.

This is going to take a lot longer than anticipated.

He’s able to get a general sense of where old buildings lived, just from some searches, but for three of the sites, he has no way of knowing what types of shops were there. 

From the four dump sites that Malcolm has the addresses of, he’s able to make some interesting connections. Such as the fact that all of those used to be some sort of shop, before it was turned into a house or apartment.

No baseline profiles come to his head from that fact, though. There’s something else that he’s missing. 

That he’s.

Missing.

Right.

Just like all of the victims were missing something. That’s obviously important though. He wouldn’t even have to be a profiler to know that.

Fumbling with his phone, Malcolm quickly dials Edrisa’s number, nearly crossing his fingers so she’ll answer quickly.

For once in his life, luck seems to be on his side. “Bright! How are you? How’s your side? It didn’t get infected, did it?”

“I’m fine, Edrisa,” Malcolm quickly answers, wondering how many times he’s said those words in the last day. “I need your help again.”

“Yeah, of course! How can I help?”

“I need you to tell me the missing organs of all of the victims.”

Humming with excitement, Edrisa questions, “What order do you want them in?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Malcolm answers, “Just as fast as you can.”

“Okay. Okay!” Malcolm can hear a clap on the other end before she begins, “Victim one: lungs. Victim two: heart. Victim three: appendix, already gone. Victim four: appendix, also already gone. Victim six: stomach- ew, and victim seven: only one of the lungs.”

Nodding to himself, Malcolm murmurs, “Perfect,” Before raising his voice, “Thank you Edrisa- that was perfect!”

“Oh! It was? Well, you are very welcome, in that case. Anything else I can do?”

“Uh, nope. That’s all. Thank you!”

“You want me to tell Gil about this?”

“Nope! Bye Edrisa.” Quickly ending the call, Malcolm tells himself that he doesn’t have time to feel bad. Not when there’s another victim about to lose an organ.

Glancing at the corner of his phone, Malcolm winces at the time. There’s still thirty more minutes until he’s going to be able to call Martin, and that’s assuming that the older man didn’t get into any trouble over the course of the evening.

Well, at least there’s something he can do in the meantime.

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_Hey so you know how i owe you?_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Yes_ **

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_What if i owed you one more?_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Oh my god malcolm_ **

**_What have you gotten into_ **

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_I couldn’t watch your news report last night because I was in the hospital_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Yeah i’m aware_ **

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_So i need you to tell me what you talked about_ **

**_Specifically, the building locations of the bodies_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital rn???_ **

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_Technically i am in the hospital right now_ **

**_*embedded image*_ **

**_See?_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_I don’t believe you_ **

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_Why does no one ever believe me?_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Why do you think??_ **

**_Also you’re supposed to be resting im not gonna help you work the case_ **

Malcolm’s fingers are already flying the screen for a response, when Ainsley beats him to it.

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Unless you help me_ **

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_Perfect_ **

**_What do you need?_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_An interview with Gil_ **

**_Getting an interview with someone on the inside would give me that final push I need_ **

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_C’mon ains you know i can’t guarantee that_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Well then you’re not getting the locations_ **

Groaning at his sister through the phone, Malcolm holds out for about a second before falling to her demands.

**M. Bright ➝ A. Whitly**

**_Fine_ **

**_So what are the buildings?_ **

**A. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Coming right up_ **

True to her word, Malcolm’s able to get all of the locations within the next few seconds. He’ll talk to Gil later. Probably.

Or maybe make another deal with his sister. Whatever comes with less pain and bloodshed, really.

After marking a few things in the Yellow Pages, it’s finally time for Malcolm to call his father. He absolutely loathes the fact that he’ll be calling as soon as possible, and knows that Martin’s going to use that against him for months to come.

But if it saves someone, it’s worth it.

“Doctor Whitly.”

_ “Malcolm, my boy! What a surprise! Are you coming in to see me today? I know that Mr. David and I have really missed you. Isn’t that right, Mr. David?” _

Unsurprisingly, there’s no response. “I need your help on a profile.”

Chuckling, Martin agrees, _ “Well, of course you do! Tell me, what’s the case. Same schtick as yesterday?” _

“What type of religion, or cult maybe, would take out organs after killing someone? Would that be a type of sacrifice?”

_ “Hmm. Well,” _ Martin clicks his tongue.  _ “I can certainly think of a few, but they’ll come with a price.” _

Pulling the phone away from his mouth so he can sigh, Malcolm mumbles, “Of course they will. What do you want, Doctor Whitly?”

_ “Call me ‘dad.’” _

“What?”

_ “Nothing weird, Malcolm. But no more of this ‘doctor Whitly’ nonsense. I’m your dad, so call me ‘dad!’” _ Malcolm can practically hear the smile in his voice.

He really doesn’t have any time to spare. “Fine. What do you know about posthumous organ removal,  _ dad?” _

_ “Well I’d say that you’re looking for a killer that wants victims to suffer.” _

Malcolm shakes his head. “No, no no no, that doesn’t make sense. All of the kills were done quickly. Not drawn out.”

_ “In human form, maybe.” _

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

With a laid back tone, Martin continues,  _ “Your killer could be buddhist. With an organ missing, the victims will never be reincarnated,” _

“And will be forced to suffer,” Malcolm nods, finishing the thought. “Okay, I have to go-”

_ “Nuh uh uh,” _ Martin interrupts.  _ “Gotta say goodbye to your dear old dad first.” _

Grimacing, only half from the physical pain, Malcolm chokes out, “Bye, dad,” Before hanging up before he can hear a response.

Half falling out of bed, Malcolm stumbles over the blinds of the hospital window to close them, and lets the door quietly click shut.

Then, eying his ‘patient’s belongings’ bag, Malcolm can’t help but let a smile come to his face. Already reaching for his clothes, he questions, “You count as back up, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe Danger Magnet Boy is on his way to save the day!


	3. This is Not One.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it comes to profiles, Malcolm has good judgement. When it comes to himself? Not so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand here it is! The final bit to this short little fic!  
> I had a lot of fun writing this, and it was honestly a blast to stop by this fandom again, especially as season two is starting up! I just wanted to give an extra thanks to everyone who's shown me support, it means so much to me!
> 
> So, without further ado, enjoy!

No matter how Malcolm moves, he can’t seem to get comfortable. Sure, it might have something to do with the ten stitches in his side, but he’s also pretty sure that this car is about as old as him.

With every pot hole he grimaces, adjusting once more. At the red lights the uber driver sends him concerned looks. Probably because he was picked up at the hospital looking a little bit worse for wear. Or it could be his hair. It’s been a few days since Malcolm’s brushed it.

In a strange effort to soothe the driver’s worries, Malcolm groans, “If I get blood on your seat, I promise I’ll pay for it.”

“Please don’t start bleeding,” The driver murmurs from the front seat. What was his name again? Dave? David? Dante? “I’m very squeamish,” He adds for extra measure.

Taking a quick glance to his side, Malcolm confirms, “We’re good so far. No blood. Well, no extra blood.”

“Extra?”

Malcolm decides that it’s probably in his best interest if his driver doesn’t faint, so he stops talking. It’s always a jarring realization when he’s in the company of people who don’t do well with blood. He can’t really even imagine what that’s like.

The neighborhood of the murders is miles away, and other than the fact that this ride is going to cost a fortune, Malcolm doesn’t mind. If he’s being completely honest, he’d much rather be riding over potholes than fighting a serial killer. Or running to find a serial killer.

Or even just walking.

On second thought, maybe he shouldn’t have left the hospital so early.

And based on the incessant buzzing that’s just begun, Malcolm’s pretty sure that his friends feel the same way. Turning his phone on silent, Malcolm opens the notifications with a grimace that has nothing to do with the burning pain in his torso.

There’s already a missed call from Gil, which is honestly impressive. It’s been merely minutes since he’s ditched the hospital.

**G. Arroyo ➝ M. Bright**

**_Call me_ **

**_Now_ **

**_I’m not playing_ **

**_Call me back_ **

**_I’m putting an APB out on you_ **

**_Get your ass back to the hospital_ **

Malcolm just watches as more notifications pile in, but doesn’t respond to any of them. He feels a bit guilty for declining all of Gil’s calls, but he can’t go back to the hospital now. Not when he’s following a lead.

**D. Powell ➝ M. Bright**

**_Bright i swear to god_ **

**_Youre going to give gil an aneurysm_ **

**_Call him_ **

**_Or call me_ **

**_And get the hell back to the hospital_ **

Despite the fact that Malcolm’s pretty sure he should at least tell someone he’s okay, he continues to not respond. Engaging in conversation will make things worse, he just knows it.

**G. Arroyo ➝ M. Bright**

**_I’m suspending you from the team when i find you_ **

It’s an empty threat, they both know it. The amount of times that Gil’s threatened to bench Malcolm is definitely in the double digits at this point. 

**G. Arroyo ➝ M. Bright**

**_And i’m serious this time_ **

With a frown, Malcolm wonders when Gil learned how to read minds.

A second later, his mother’s calls come swarming in. For every red button Malcolm presses, Jessica just calls again. They’re in a stalemate, and without answering, there’s no way that Malcolm can end it. He knows that she has nothing better to do, so all he can do is just wait it out.

It takes over thirty declined calls for Jessica to give up and switch to texting.

**J. Whitly ➝ M. Bright**

**_Back to the hospital_ **

**_Now_ **

**_Next time i am knocking you out, malcolm_ **

**_Stop scaring your mother and go back to the hospital_ **

**_And stop ignoring me_ **

**_I know you’re getting these_ **

**_I’m sending ainsley to get you_ **

Malcolm can’t help but groan. If there’s one person in the world who rivals his mother’s stubbornness, it’s his sister. 

Deciding that he can’t deal with another Whitly for at least another hour, Malcolm just turns his phone off and slides it into his pocket. Consequences be damned, there’s no way that Malcolm’s going to start conversing with anyone.

“So,” The driver starts, glancing at Malcolm through the mirror. “You’re uh, you’re not gonna start bleeding, right?”

Checking his side again, Malcolm confirms, “Not gonna start bleeding. There’s a bigger tip waiting for you if you get me there faster, though.”

There’s a grumble from the front seat, but Malcolm knows he isn’t imagining it when the car seems to accelerate a little faster after the next red light.

Through groans and grimaces, Malcolm watches as the city around him transforms from the rich and well known part of New York to the poorer parts.

Other than one fateful time he ran away when he was 13, Malcolm’s never spent much time down here. Jessica has never been fond of her children experiencing anything but the best (save for a father. And maybe mental health), which included the neighborhoods that they could play in when they were little.

Then again, after the Surgeon was unmasked, it’s not like there were many kids that wanted to play with the Whitlys anymore.

As the car stutters to a stop, Malcolm tosses a bit of extra money on the passenger seat, thanking the man for getting him here quickly. There’s a sigh of relief from both of them when there aren’t any red stains left in the backseat.

Malcolm’s never been the best when it comes to friendly communication, but after knocking on a stranger’s door, he doesn’t have much choice anymore.

A young woman opens the door, and makes a face as soon as she realizes that she doesn’t recognize Malcolm. “I don’t want to join your church, or be on your mailing list.”

“I’m not here for either of that,” Malcolm replies with an awkward smile, attempting to keep a hand off of his battered side.

“I also don’t want to buy anything,”

“I’m also not here to sell you anything.”

Frowning, she continues, “Then I think you have the wrong house.”

“Based on my calculations, I do not.”

Evidently, that was the wrong thing to say. “Based on your what? You need to leave, or I’m calling the police.”

Malcolm does his best to hide a grimace. Like most people knocking on stranger’s doors, Malcolm would rather not want the police to show up. However unlike most people, said police squad isn’t their coworkers.

“Listen,” He takes a breath, “I think you’re in danger, okay? About thirty years ago, there used to be a business at this house, and someone’s been killing at these locations.”

“You need to leave, now,” She hisses, doing her best to close the door on his face. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t in good conscience leave you. You’re in danger.”

“Sir,” She grits out, “Leave me. Alone.”

Malcolm opens his mouth to argue once again, but snaps it close when the woman gasps, eyes growing wide. He manages to turn around just in time to see a baseball bat swinging at his head.

With reflexes that Malcolm didn’t think he possesses, he narrowly manages to duck in time for the bat to skirt the edges of his hair. Edrisa did mention blunt force trauma in all of the victims.

“Move!” Malcolm shouts, pushing the woman into her home.

Slamming her front door closed, she turns to Malcolm with fire in her eyes. “What the hell was that?”

“Someone trying to kill you!” He easily replies, before he awkwardly looks around some poor woman’s foyer. “‘S a, a uh, nice house you have here.”

“Why is someone trying to kill me?”

Right. That’s probably more important at the moment. “It’s not personal, if it makes you feel any better?” He tries. “It’s the location of your house. Someone is angry about that, and is taking it out on the residents. Wrong place, wrong time, really.”

“I’m calling the police.”

That’s certainly a smart idea. “I’ll do it,” Malcolm replies, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Kinda have the precinct on speed dial.”

The woman mumbles something, but it’s too quiet for Malcolm to make sense of. And based on the nasty look she’s giving him, Malcolm’s pretty sure that he doesn’t want to hear it in the first place.

At least now that he knows the killer is here for sure, he doesn’t have such a problem calling Gil.

“Hey G-”

_ “Where the hell are you?” _

“In West Burrow,”

_ “Get your ass back to the hospital, Bright. Now.” _

Taking a step away from the woman, Malcolm continues, “So ordinarily? I would. One hundred percent. However,”

_ “What the hell did you get yourself into?” _

“There might be a killer on the other side of the door.”

Malcolm can hear Gil curse away from the phone before he growls,  _ “Kid. Give me your exact address, right. Now. And when I get there, you’re in so much trouble.” _

“But I caught a killer!”

_ “You’re supposed to be in the hospital!” _

Even though Gil can’t see it, Malcolm still shrugs. “Right. I’ll text you the address, okay?” Not exactly eager to hear a response, Malcolm hangs up, before turning to the woman. “So, good news, bad news. Good news is that my friends from the police department are coming.”

After a second, the woman questions, “And the bad news?”

“The precinct is pretty far away. It’s barely in our jurisdiction, in fact. A block further south and you’d be with the-”

“I don’t really care,” The woman interrupts, and Malcolm can’t really blame her.

Putting on his most soothing smile, Malcolm tries, “Listen, you’re going to be okay. I promise, you’ll be fine. My name is Malcolm Bright, what’s yours?”

“Why are you bleeding?”

“Y- wait, what?” Frowning, Malcolm lifts up his arm and coat sleeve to see that yes, he is in fact bleeding. “Um,” He elegantly begins, “It’s kind of a long story. Actually, it isn’t. But it’s not important. What’s your name?”

Slowly, she answers, “Laura. Are you sure you’re okay? You look really pale.”

“It’s probably the sleep deprivation,” Malcolm replies, nearly echoing what he told Gil less than a day ago.

Scoffing, she questions, “The sleep deprivation? I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Probably not,” Malcolm nods, flinching when a heavy thunk hits the door. “It’s probably in our best interests to leave.” When Laura just stays staring at the door, Malcolm puts a hand on her shoulder. “Laura?”

She just sucks in a breath, snapping herself out. “Yeah. No, yeah. We should definitely go. Upstairs?”

“Lead the way.”

The first few steps aren’t that bad, if Malcolm’s not counting the fact that he absolutely hates cardio. However by the time he’s halfway up, Malcolm can tell that he’s sweating from something more than just physical exertion. He doesn’t need to be a doctor to know that running up stairs with ten stitches in his side isn’t exactly an ideal situation.

Both he and Laura flinch when the thunks come back to the front door.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Malcolm questions her, “Do you have an upstairs bathroom?”

“Yeah,” She frowns, “Why?”

“We’re gonna hide out in there.”

“Got it,” Laura nods, taking the whole ‘killer out to get me’ in surprising stride. Once they’re inside, she looks at his side, gaze lingering. “Are you going to be okay?”

Purposely avoiding looking down himself, Malcolm lies, “I’ll be fine. Although I’d take a towel if you have an extra.”

Already pulling one down from a rack, Laura nods, “Yep, yep. Please take this. You’re not gonna die, are you?”

“‘S not that much blood.”

“Yes it is,” She deadpans.

Grabbing the towel from her outstretched hand, Malcolm murmurs, “Oh, look at that. It kinda is.”

“Please don’t die,” Laura begs with worried eyes. “I just got new house insurance and I don’t know what that’s gonna do to my rates.”

Pressing his hand and towel into his side, Malcolm promises, “I’m not planning on dying. And you’re not gonna be either.”

However, accompanying his statement is yet another thunk to the front door. But this time, a crack follows right after.

“If I survive my insurance is going to skyrocket,”

“Laura, your priorities might be a little off,” Malcolm replies, wondering if it’s the bathroom or just him that seems to have dropped ten degrees. “Just stay as quiet as you can,” Malcolm whispers, already positioning himself in front of her.

If a manic serial killer is out to get Laura, they’re going to have to go through Malcolm first. And based on the blood pooling on the floor, he hasn’t got much to lose. 

“Oh my God, I’m going to die,” She whispers, mostly to herself.

Without turning around, Malcolm attempts to coach, “Just take some deep breaths. You’re going to be fine.  _ We’re _ going to be fine.”

Like a horror movie, footsteps echo around the house, making both Malcolm and Laura flinch when they get closer. It’s like a game of hide and go seek, except the loser dies. Sounds like a game from his childhood.

There’s a few thunks from a baseball bat, and as it gets closer, Laura closes her eyes, whispering something to herself. Malcolm would do the same, if he’d think he could manage to open his eyes back up.

The blood from his side is rather insistent as it pours out.

Just as Malcolm begins formulating a plan revolving around a window on the second story, pairs of heavy boots join the familiar thunk of the baseball bat.

Laura attempts to suppress a whimper, and Malcolm holds a hand up. “It’s okay. That’s my team. We’re okay.”

Sure enough, shouts of “NYPD!” begin filling the home, and Malcolm relaxes. Even while yelling, Gil’s voice has always made things better.

Until he opens the door and looks like he’s about to kill Malcolm himself. 

The two stare at each other for a tense few moments, before Gil holsters his gun “Bright.”

“Hey Gil,” Malcolm grins, going for nonchalance. “Glad you got my message-”

“You’re in so much fucking trouble,” Gil grumbles, kneeling down next to Malcolm to check his wound. “Jesus,” He mutters, before turning around. “Dani, is the bus down there?”

There’s a beat before Dani shouts up the stairs, “A block away! Why?”

Cursing under his breath, Gil helps Malcolm stand up from the tile floor, keeping the younger man steady as his knees threaten to drop from under him. “What part of ‘don’t leave the hospital’ don’t you understand, kid?”

“I was restless,” Malcolm counters. “Murders calm me down.”

From the side, Laura looks rather alarmed, not that Gil can blame her. “Murders  _ what?” _

Leaning into the older man’s shoulder, Malcolm looks up, “Hey, Gil?”

“What’s up, kid?”

WIth a shaky breath, Malcolm admits, “I’m feeling pretty light headed. Like. Moving. Swaying. The world is.”

“Ah, shit,” Gil sighs, bringing Malcolm down to the floor so he doesn’t hit his head as he collapses. “You never do anything halfway, do you?”

“Mmhm,” Malcolm confirms, before letting his eyes slip closed.

Lightly shaking his shoulder, Gil tries, “C’mon kid, stay awake for me, ‘kay?”

“One ‘undered percen’,” Comes Malcolm’s sluggish reply, before finally letting unconsciousness wash over him.

*

Peeling his eyes open, Malcolm wakes up with a frown. “‘Lo?”

“Malcolm,”

Wincing, part of Malcolm wishes that he was still out. Dealing with his mother is not his idea of a fun wake up call at the hospital. “Hello, mother.”

“First, you landed yourself in the hospital without telling me! And then you left! You didn’t even sign out- you just left!” Dramatically enunciating each word, Jessica stares daggers at her son. “This is why I need a guard stationed at your door, Malcolm.”

Attempting to push himself up into a seated position, Malcolm grimaces. “Please don’t.”

Rolling her eyes, Jessica stands up. “There’s more people here to see you.”

“Tell them I’m still asleep?”

As a response, Jessica just turns to look at the inside window of Malcolm’s hospital room.

When he follows her eyes, he just sighs and lays back down. Sure enough, looking through the other side of the window with sharp eyes is Gil. And he looks like he’s out for blood.

“Knock me back out?” Malcolm asks, only halfway joking. “Please, mother?”

“Absolutely not. I’ll let you and Gil talk, sweetie,” She gives him a smile, and to the untrained eye, it might even look comforting.

It’s not.

For the first few seconds after walking in, neither Gil nor Malcolm say anything.

Instead they just look at each other, much like the bathroom, earlier in the day. Wait.

“What time is it?”

“Time for you to stay in the hospital,” Gil seamlessly replies.

WIth a tired laugh, Malcolm questions, “Did you just think of that? Or is that how you passed the time when I was asleep?”

“Oh yeah,” Gil sarcastically mutters, “That’s what I was doing in the waiting room, just thinking about puns.”

“I knew it.”

Gil shakes his head, but he can’t help but let a smile escape. His kid has a knack for that. Nearly falling down into the plastic chair beside the bed, Gil takes another look at Malcolm and sighs. “How’re you feelin’, kid?”

“I’m okay,” Malcolm nods. “You don’t seem that mad.”

“Oh I’m pissed.” The answer comes from a deadly blank face. “And the second you’re healthy enough, you’re going to be doing paperwork for eight hours a day.”

“You wouldn’t,”

“You’re really gonna chance that?”

Lips curling up to a smile, Malcolm shakes his head. “Probably not the smartest idea.”

“Wouldn’t be your dumbest one today.”

“So it is still the same day!”

“Focusing on the wrong thing there, kiddo.”

Making a noncommittal noise, Malcolm just brings up a hand to wave it in front of his face. A second later, it falls back to the sheets. He always forgets how weak pain meds make him.

When Gil looks down with a deep sigh, a frown comes over the other’s face. “Are  _ you  _ okay?”

“I’m not the one that just tore out half my stitches,” Gil replies, doing his best to ignore the actual question. 

Nodding to his hand, Malcolm points out, “You’re twisting your ring. You always do that when you’re anxious. Or worried.”

“Well, I’m both,” Gil answers, a little surprised by his own candor. “So brilliant deduction, Sherlock.”

Malcolm’s lips twitch a little at the nick name, but he can’t force a full smile. “I’m uh, I’m sorry for worrying you, Gil.”

Gil just shakes his head. “One of these days you’re gonna send me to an early grave, kid.”

“Well, with your age,” Malcolm starts, smiling up at the older man, “I don’t know how early it would be.”

“Yeah,” He takes it in stride, “Then maybe it’ll be you with the early grave if you keep up those comments.”

“Oh har, har. Seriously, Gil. I’m sorry I worried you.”

“You want to make it up to me?” After a nod, Gil gives Malcolm a pointed look. “You stay right there. Or I’ll take this Yellow Pages and knock you out.”

With faux surprise, Malcolm replies, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“The nurses would cheer me on.”

“Don’t let my mother hear that,”

With a snort, Gil points out, “She’d also cheer me on.”

Chuckling as much as his battered body will allow, Malcolm muses, “You’re not wrong.”

After a beat, Gil takes a deep breath. “Get some rest, kid.”

“Honestly Gil? I’m fi-” He immediately cuts himself off when he sees the older man’s face. “Right. I’m getting rest. See? Look, my eyes are closed.”

As much as Malcolm hates to admit it, he really is exhausted, and closing his eyes seemed to be the final straw. 

Right before he falls asleep once more, the last thing he hears is Gil’s tired sigh, and the sound of him getting comfortable in the chair beside him.

If there’s one thing that he knows for sure, it’s that he’s here for the long haul now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, wiping a single tear from my eye: they grow up so fast :')
> 
> jkjk. Malcolm's a lot of fun to write. He's just such a disaster magnet, and I don't think I'll ever tire of that lmao
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you have a wonderful rest of your day! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> I end up posting a lot of updates and little tidbits on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/appalachianapologies) (AppalachianApologies), so come check that out if you're interested! I love talking with you all!
> 
> I love and care about each and everyone one of you guys, and I hope you're all doing well. If you're in a bad or scary situation, here are some hotlines for you lovely people. (Please keep in mind that the written out numbers are US hotlines.)
> 
> National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255  
> National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673  
> National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233
> 
> If you don't live in America and need someone to talk to, here's a list of [international hotlines.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines)  
> You are not alone, and I love you all <3
> 
> All of the love to you wonderful people, and until next time, take care! <3


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